“FSFO to Eagle Four… FSFO to Eagle Four… Hey Tawn, this is Celine. Do you copy? Over.”
Silence…
“Taw… Seriously… At least do me a solid, and let me know how many to expect for dinner?”
Silence…
“Tawny… Hey, c’mon… Are you ticked because I hooked up with Minister Nev… Is that why you’re giving me the silent treatment?”
Silence…
“Ok… So that’s how we’re playing it, huh? Because I’m not apologizing! Not to you, Tawny Bishop! He’s been using the word God a lot—and plenty more GOOD GOD’s, when he’s with me.”
Silence…
“He also told me that the Lord works in mysterious ways… I told him we could both pray on it. So, we did… Two more times.”
Silence…
“Good God… This squirrel stew has been on the stove for so long it’s starting to reek. I probably should have gutted Cracker Jack before I threw him in the pot. Oh well.”
Silence…
“Is this Wednesday? Card night… Is anyone playing Canasta tonight?”
Silence…
If it were not for the fact that Tawny had previously torn the handheld receiver mic and cord loose from the marine band radio, bashed it into a million pieces, and then chucked it into the lake—Sam Doright may have been able to respond to one of Celine’s many requests. Or at least cut her short before anyone and everyone on the lake, who monitors channel-16, learns first-hand the level of craziness happening with Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters.
“Hey Tawny… I’m sorry… Come in pleeeeeease… The squirrel stew, oh my GOOD GOD, I’m beginning to think I’ll never get off this island,” Celine continued.
“She’s not the only one,” the shocked body in the bow of Sam’s boat whimpered. It was Alvin Pikeannoli—survivor of the Moose Island shore lunch. He had remained aboard (almost forgotten), in the fetal position, fitted in his flotation diaper, clinging to three more life jackets while the rescue attempt per Sally and Link was happening.
Together, Sally and Tawny were making their way toward the gunnel of Sam’s boat. Link was in tow—belly up—nonresponsive.
“Here, hand him to me,” offered Sam Doright. His full-on government training had kicked in and thankfully he was prepared for pet CPR.
The women gently lifted the British Lab over the port side and remained there grasping the boat, watching Sam’s next move.
“Hurry,” Sally pleaded. “His name’s Link.”
Sam had the dog laying on the length of the rod locker—tapping his paw. “Link, can you hear me? Link,” he said.
There was no response. Zero. Zippo. Nada.
He then shifted the dog flat. Laying him on his right side.
“Try pumping his stomach,” offered Tawny.
“That’s not how you do it,” replied Sam, and then tilted Link’s head back—pulling his tongue out and checking for anything that might be blocking the airway.
“This isn’t where the phrase dog breath came from, but I’m going to give it my best shot,” he continued.
Sally and Tawny gazed over the gunnel—not a blink—not a word—each holding their respective breaths.
Sam Doright closed the dog’s mouth with his hand, formed a tight seal over the nose with his mouth, and proceeded to give ONE noticeable puff of breath to Link. He then waited for a three count and repeated the step. It was not a full human-sized breath. More of a short, puppy puff, let’s get some air into your lungs type of breathing.
Sam had been well trained. Link had come to the surface belly up, which told him the dog’s heart was likely still beating. Was he conscious? NO. Was he breathing? NO.
This distinction saved Link’s life. Sam just needed to jumpstart the breathing and that is exactly what happened next. “Breathe, Link!” he encouraged.
Two puffs later the gag reflex was triggered, and poor little Link was coughing and sputtering like a Sears push mower coming out of winter storage. The amount of Lac des Bois water that came out of that dog was surprisingly disproportionate to his body size. Bloated—gross—but necessary.
Two breaths and Link was back!
When the first shot was fired from Biggy Pescatore’s boat—Marlin Salty immediately cut the throttle—banked opposite—away from the danger—and unholstered his Canadian MNR issued Smith & Wesson .40 caliber semi-automatic pistol.
“You can’t fire randomly at his boat!” shouted Nev, hanging on to the starboard gunnel as they banked hard toward the port. “He has innocent passengers on board!”
“That’s not my plan, but I do intend to defend myself,” replied Marlin. “Hang on!”
Meanwhile, back at the beach with the Cessna A185F Skywagon bearing down on them, Clarence Bishop dove for cover while his boss Rusty Flathers stood flat footed, as if his feet were stuck in quicksand. Or were they?
Truth be told, Rusty had had quite enough of this B.S… Enough already with Wendigo. Enough with guests disappearing from his island. Matter-of-factly—he could have given two hoots if there were two M2 Browning .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the wings of this Cessna—and pointed directly at him. Plausible? NO. But he was choosing to make a statement nonetheless.
And quite possibly… He had a feeling about who might be grasping the W-shaped yoke of this flying machine. Was it a pilot that was very much familiar with how to push, pull, and turn his controls? Just maybe…
Standing straight as a statue—staring down the barrel of a float plane cruising at 138mph—Rusty’s mind went to Applesauce.
Two weeks prior to the Fourth of July he had been invited to a pool party with cousins Skip and Scoop. Normally, a frog-filled farm pond would have been most suitable, but seeing how this was an area-wide co-ed gathering they felt hoppingly propelled to attend.
Up until now, Rusty’s high school career had been rather uneventful. Uneventful, meaning he had never been on a date… And uneventful, in that the nearest he had been to an unclothed co-ed was… Let’s check… NEVER.
Until today. Today was Applesauce…
By late afternoon the pool party was beginning to wrap up, and Rusty was three shades redder than any dermatologist would have recommended. But, if we are being honest—this was during an era when teenage girls were using Johnson & Johnson Baby Oil as their go-to for sunbathing.
Anyway… As his memory continued scrolling and the plane showed no signs of slowing down… Skip or Scoop, or possibly both, had requested a previously offered container of homemade applesauce “to go”. Turned out the host’s mother (Maisie) was a tremendous maker of the sauce.
“Rusty, go fetch us that applesauce, we’re starving. Hurry up,” Skip and Scoop ordered.
And then obviously, Rusty obliged. Or get stuck to the bottom of the pool with one or both of his cousin’s butts on his face.
Into the guest’s house Rusty tiptoed. “Hello, I’m here for the applesauce. Is anyone in here?”
Searching high and low in the kitchen, he felt a bit obtrusive as an outsider but continued the search. Nothing. Nothing on the shelves, nothing in the pantry, nothing in the cupboards.
Then he heard a noise down the hallway just outside the kitchen. “Is there someone here? That sounded like voices,” he thought.
Not knowing the layout of the house, he marched out of the kitchen and peered down the albeit brief hallway. “Is anyone…” he began. Then barely audible, “Ap…ple…sau…ce.”
THERE she was… Straight down the abrupt hallway… Bedroom door wide open… SHE was standing directly in front of the shower in which SHE had just exited. Reaching for a towel… Presumably washing off the baby oil… Most certainly, fully figured, unsuspecting, and impressively naked. She—was—perfect.
They (Rusty and his teenage co-ed host) locked eyes… One count—two counts—she screamed—Rusty screamed—then he ran. Ran right into the door jamb, cracked his walnut near the temple, bounced off the floor, regained his footing, and sprinted outside through the pool yard and down the street.
Legend has it… There was an unofficial sixteen-hundred-meter record set that day as Rusty raced by block after block. Neighborhood dogs barked until their voices became hoarse and strutting stray cats scattered to the safety of treetops.
The plane grumbled and spit power out the exhaust pipes. Its oversized camshaft was flexing as she taxied the float plane toward the beach and coaxed its rudder pedals. Behind the gold framed Ray-Ban Aviators, hidden by the brown B-15 lenses, were a laser pair of Jetstream blue eyes.
Same eyes… Same woman… Same Rusty Flathers. Still no Applesauce.
Sally and Tawny, both hearing the echo of a distant gunshot, flutter kicked, then blasted themselves out of the water—over the gunnel—and into the shelter of the boat.
Link, now alert, scampered toward the bow and barked twice, “Let’s go get Cos!”
Sam hit the throttle—heading toward what previously was a circling Biggy Pescatore’s boat—then a second shot rang out—Marlin’s boat stopped.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 